


Green Flags

by Whreflections



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Chris Argent, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Fisting, Fisting, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Limit Pushing, Loss of Control, M/M, Omega Peter Hale, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Past Abuse, Safeword Use, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Sort Of, Stilinski Family Feels, Watersports, Yellow/Slow Down Word Use, omega biology, or really at this point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22333162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: Stiles never expected to end up in an abusive relationship- but then, does anyone?  He just made a choice, and at the time, it didn't seem like an insane one.  It's easy to obsess over what he might have missed, what he didn't see, but that's not what his therapist wants him to focus on- if he wants to make a better choice in the future, it might be more helpful to look not for warnings, but for the absence of them.It's a process- one that that's going to get a boost he never would have taken on his own after he sees his ex again when he least expects it.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 105
Kudos: 359





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've had a version of this story in my head for a few months now, but I've got so much else I'm working on that I was like no, don't start another WIP...
> 
> but I really, really wanted to write porn, and I had a rough evening lol I hope you all enjoy this weirdness.

No one sets out to be a precautionary tale. 

At 14, Stiles could have read his own story on the internet; there were plenty of them out there, and he had morbid curiosity. He would have read it, and let his phone drop to his chest, and looked over at Scott. He would have been lit up by the screen—maybe the blue grey light of Jet Force Gemini, if they were feeling nostalgic. He could hear his own exasperated noises.

_I mean, it’s sad, it’s really fucking sad, but that guy was a fucking maniac. I would have run for the hills. I mean—dad would have killed him; you’d kill him. I’d have killed him; I wouldn’t just take it. That’s not what being a sub is, you know?_

Scott would have agreed without taking his eyes off the screen, and Stiles would have been mostly soothed. It was tragic, but he wouldn’t ever be _that_ guy, a meek little thing stuck with a Dom who didn’t deserve the title, letting himself get fucked up and turned around. That couldn’t happen to him. 

After it had, the truth was painfully obvious. He’d been so naïve. It didn’t matter that he was the son of the sheriff; it didn’t matter that he’d been raised knowing how to handle a gun. It didn’t matter that his dad was a vocal proponent of sub and omega rights; it didn’t matter that he carried a spark. It could happen to anyone, and it happened to him. 

It was so insidious, so unexpected that the truth didn’t come to him until far too late—until he was on his knees in the bathroom, his chest and throat burning with the effort of trying to throw up quietly into a towel. With his throat already raw from use, the burn and sting of the acid would have been enough to make his eyes water if they weren’t already watering. The little tiles on the floor were pressing their geometry into his skin, his legs stock still though the rest of him shook like a leaf. 

He had been looking forward to going out to the club that night; he’d wanted it for weeks and weeks, but it had been nothing like he’d thought it would be, nothing like it had been when they first got together, and Josiah had been gentle with him. Stiles had known when he did it that he’d be punished for using his safeword, but he hadn’t expected it to be ignored—and _then_ punished, once they were home. Even after everything, in those first few minutes, the prospect of sleeping on the floor without Josiah’s arms around him had seemed far worse than anything else he could have done. 

In the bathroom, with the memories from the club pressing in and in on his chest, the reality of it settled, and he could hear the truth at the back of his mind like a voice over—

_Stiles is dropping, because his Dom pushed past his limits, didn’t stop the scene, and didn’t bring him down afterward. If your boundaries are being crossed and your Dom isn’t responding, signal the nearest Dom or alpha you see in any way you can. A punishment should never make you question your self worth, or take you further past your limits. You should never be punished for dropping. Remember, if you’re having to take care of yourself, your Dom isn’t doing their job. Don’t be like Stiles._

It made him laugh, a pathetic, wet sound that didn’t seem out of place with the crying, or the lack of air. He muffled all of it into the clean edge of the towel, his forehead pressed against his arm until he was dizzy and still half drooling, his mouth sore. 

When he caught his breath, he did what he should have done five months ago, and what he was sure Josiah never suspected he would, or he’d have taken his phone. 

His dad picked up on the second ring, and that by itself was so fucking small, but it was enough that all he could do at first was cry harder. 

As it turned out, he didn’t actually have to ask for help; it was easier than he ever imagined. All he had to do was dial. 

*****

In therapy, Stiles lost track of how many times he said the phrase _I don’t remember any red flags; he was totally normal, until he wasn’t_.

Rather than try and make him see the red flags, his therapist had, after maybe the fiftieth time he’d said it several sessions in, held her hand up to stop him, and give him a new direction. 

_Rather than looking for red flags, why don’t we talk about what green flags look like?_

When he first started watching Chris, that’s all he was doing— making sure Peter was okay, and looking for green flags. He never intended to insert himself into the equation; he never even intended to speak to either of them, but the older he’s gotten, the more he’s learned intent can only carry you so far. 

He never intended to need his dad to come pick him up off a bathroom floor because he was too much of a mess to take his own self to the hospital, either. Anything was possible—and in that context, the little cheery poster that had been up in his kindergarten class with a duckling and a magic wand and those same words seemed suddenly so sinister. 

_Anything_ could happen. Anything at all. 

*****

The club Chris and Peter frequented most often was nothing like most of the places Josiah had taken him to—that was precisely why Stiles was there. It was upscale; it required membership, background checks. They had wings for omegas in heat, and wings for alphas in rut, along with organization to their rooms that allowed for wide variety and range of preferences. More single subs were allowed in than single Doms, ensuring it never felt threatening. They taught classes and held workshops; the lobby had information on support groups. 

Safe, sane, and consensual, through and through. It was the kind of place he would have heard about in sex ed, more ritzy than basic, but still common enough. When he was 17, he had thought something grittier would be more exciting. His teenage self had no idea yet how sexy rules could be. 

The first time he saw Chris, he was using Peter as a lecture example, strapped down to a breeding bench. A small crowd had gathered to watch, and Chris was talking loudly enough for his voice to carry, one hand pressed casually to swell of Peter’s ass. 

“—teaching your omega sub to settle on a breeding bench is more than a lack of open struggling. If you go though this training, you are teaching them that once they are in this position—” Chris’ hand ran down Peter’s spine, all the way to the base of his neck, before sweeping back up. “—they have no control over who or what touches them, or how their body reacts. They should let go completely; they don’t need to be thinking, only focusing on the sensation. You’re doing all the thinking for them.”

It sounded terrifying, and exhilarating. Josiah would have misused it mercilessly, and Peter was so still—the stillness was half of why Stiles had stepped forward, weaving his way through until he was close enough for a good look. He had learned the art of going still as self-preservation, but he could tell almost as soon as he was close that that wasn’t the source of Peter’s stillness. 

There was no wary tension in him. He held his position, yes, but his eyes were glazed, and his arms didn’t shake. The bench was taking his weight, but he was leaning into it; he was letting it. There was no flicker of struggle, not even for a heartbeat when Chris reached between his legs to spread his folds, exposing his slit. 

“Do you see how wet he is? We haven’t done anything yet; I’ve barely touched him. I just asked him to get in position, and I secured him to the bench. This is an example of what I’ve talked about before, about combining lessons—Peter already knows that when he’s naked, he needs to be hard and wet for me unless I tell him otherwise. He does a very good job of that.” 

The flare of Peter’s trill was quick and low, and still about half the audience cooed like he was a pup. If Peter caught the scattered laughter mixed in, it didn’t seem to bother him—and half a second later, Stiles could understand why. In the middle of the lesson, with that scattered laughter still dying, Chris dropped to one knee like there was no audience; like he hadn’t been in the middle of a lecture. Standing as close as he was, Stiles couldn’t miss the utter adoration and pride in his eyes—it couldn’t have been anything else, not with as soft as his smile was when he spoke to Peter. 

“That’s right; there’s my good boy,” he murmured, the tone utterly different. There was none of the professional distance he had for the audience, all warmth and rapture and love. His grip in Peter’s hair when he took it looked punishing, but his kiss was soft. 

It made Stiles wet. 

When Chris stood back up, he kept going like he’d never paused. “Because he’s a werewolf his physical limits might seem harder to find, but what that really also means is that his body’s going to stay tight. I can stretch him, and tomorrow he’d need to be stretched again. Those are limits _I_ have to know, because he is so well trained that any of you could come up and try to fist his ass right now and he’d let you—but that doesn’t mean he’s ready for it. You don’t judge a wolf’s limits based on what they can physically take—they feel pain,” Chris said. The force in his gaze as he met the eyes of his audience could surely have quailed any speciesists that might have been lingering. The fire in his silence dared a debate that didn’t come. Triumphant in the silence, he nodded, curled his fingers through Peter’s hair, and went on. “I don’t hurt him. But if I work him up to it? There are no limits to what he’ll let me do without struggling, or what I could let any of you do. He could be knotted three ways and pissing on the floor from overstimulation and all you’d hear was pleasure. If your omega is struggling when you put them on the bench, you need to find out why. It is instinct for them to be more pliant like this, to let themselves relax and enjoy being bred; if you’ve made it unpleasant, then you’re pushing a limit. You’re going too fast. That’s not their fault, it’s yours. Back up and do it right, or don’t do it at all.”

Lightheaded, Stiles dug his hands into his palms to fight the urge to go to his knees. He couldn’t remember ever hearing a voice with such easy command—not even any of the Dom movie stars he’d drooled over after he first presented. Chris’ voice was far too smooth, his hand too big and strong when it squeezed at the nape of Peter’s neck, just above his collar. 

Around the other edge of the audience, an alpha spoke up, clear and curious. “Does he really just accept that level of overstimulation with no ill effects? I pushed a sub that hard once and she dropped, even though we’d worked our way up to it and she never said her safeword. It was just too much.”

The hand Chris ran down Peter’s flank looked possessive, his nails lightly dragging. For seconds before they vanished, the tracks of his passage stood out faint red, then pink, then nothing. “It’s not impossible for him to drop—I’d be a liar if I said it was, but Peter and I are close. We have a strong connection; we have worked to build that. You have to. I know that I could do everything right that we’ve done a dozen times and he could still drop on a bad day. He knows that if he does, I’ll be right here to take care of him. It doesn’t happen often, but it can still happen. It’s good to be aware—but to answer your question, yes, he is trained to in this position accept overstimulation without letting it ramp him up too much. You’re more than welcome to come help me with a demonstration.”

It was so strange to see, how well it could work with a Dom in control who knew his sub inside and out. The alpha woman was a stranger, but she walked right up to Peter and slipped her fingers into his slit with no preamble, and he did nothing but moan. She fingered him until slick was running down his thighs, his cock swaying and dripping, until Chris was smoothly trading her fingers for his, and guiding her in lubing up her fist. 

It couldn’t have been much bigger than Chris’ knot—if it even _was_ bigger—but the shake in Peter’s thighs once her hand slipped in up to the wrist left Stiles mouth dry. He couldn’t have looked away, not even if he’d wanted to, not even if he hadn’t been leaking through his boxers. 

The audience had shifted, some wandering away while other curious eyes had come closer, and Chris was still talking for the ones who remained, and the alpha who’d asked her question—though her eyes were locked, then, on the greedy way Peter’s slit milked at her wrist, trying hard to draw her in deeper. 

“If you’re looking for overstimulation, for some, this might get them there, but he’s going to need more—keep rocking your hand, keep that pressure on his prostate. I’m going to add to it from here,” Chris said, matter of fact, lube coating his fingers. At the first twist of two fingers in his ass, Peter moaned. At three, Stiles could see the line of his spine trembling, but he hadn’t once tried to pull against his bounds. His mouth was opening, panting, but the glazed look of rapture that he’d had from the minute Stiles walked up hadn’t left. If anything, it was deeper, his eyes fluttering closed finally when Chris’ knuckles started to really stretch him. 

From there, his moans were constant and low, clearly utterly involuntary—and Stiles realized with a fresh shock of heat that Chris’ focus had only increased, his attention rapt on every sound Peter made, every twitch of muscle up his back and down through his thighs. He had come twice at least, slick pooling down around his knees, his cock dripping here and there onto a pool of come cooling beneath him—and still, when Chris’ big hand disappeared into him up to the wrist, that wasn’t the end. 

He did cry out sharply for that, but his head didn’t lift, and Chris only started to rock his own arm in rhythm with the other alpha’s, pressure against pressure, overfull and stretched like taking a knot both where one should go, and a knot where his body hadn’t been made for it. Stiles had never seen porn so entrancing—then again, porn was fake, full of over dramatic whines and disconnected pairs. This was real. 

At some sign too subtle for Stiles to see, Chris nodded, more to himself, it seemed, than any of them. “He’s almost there—watch him, now. He’ll lose control, and he won’t panic. He’ll still be my good boy.” That particular softness was back in his voice, there, like dark honey, and Stiles knew that part had been for Peter. 

The assurance was punctuated with a hard slap to his ass by Chris’ free hand, sharp and quick and repeated. It was a dirty trick, both the added sting and the instinctive urge to clench it brought, making his tired muscles war with themselves over whether to clench or bear down. He’d been at it so long already, the snapping of his control under such a tug-of-war was utterly inevitable—and still, Stiles found his breath hitching almost in time with Peter’s when it happened, his body betraying him, piss streaming from his cock to spill onto the floor below. 

He never stopped moaning. If he’d noticed at all, it was visible in maybe the faintest uptick of the red in his cheeks, though that could just as easily have been the result of Chris’ praise. It had started almost immediately as soon as he’d finished, a low and quiet wordless alpha rumble, first, before words too low for Stiles’ human ears to hear. The hand that had slapped so ruthlessly at his ass had shifted to rubbing, slow and gentle circles, shifting closer until his thumb could rub at the too wide stretch of muscle as Chris slipped his fist free. 

Transfixed, Stiles stayed until he was one of the last stragglers, until Chris was unfastening Peter from the bench, and pulling him up into his arms. Peter was clingy, grabbing for him even though his arms were like rubber, and Chris didn’t slap him away. He wasn’t embarrassed; he didn’t scold him for causing a scene. He only chuckled, such utter fondness in the sound that Stiles felt his eyes well up, though he couldn’t have said why. 

Chris’ smile was soft at the edges, his hands sure and careful as he wrapped Peter’s arms around him and his own shirt around Peter’s shoulders, guided his face to tuck in against Chris’ shoulder. He barely reacted when Peter’s teeth closed possessively over the ball of his shoulder, nothing more than a quick wince, and a kiss to the top of his head, a low murmur that was the last Stiles let himself catch. 

“Easy, Lobo. I’ve got you. You know I’ve got you.”

It could have been offensive, under different circumstances. It could have been a slur, or an insult; a joke that wasn’t funny—but it was an endearment, and Stiles felt like he was intruding, his throat too hot. 

He didn’t get off, didn’t scene with anyone, but left feeling almost as shaken as if he had. 

*****

At his desk in his room, he listened to the sounds of his dad quietly going to bed down the hall, after having pretended he hadn’t waited up until Stiles got back from the club. It would have been awkward, except that Stiles couldn’t blame him. If he’d found his kid coughing up blood and dropping on a bathroom floor while his Dom protested that _nothing had happened; he’s being dramatic_ , he’d have been overprotective, too. 

After longer than he counted of chewing his pen and staring into space, listening to the muffled sounds of bedtime fading into nothing but the barking clock in the hall chiming beagle o’clock, Stiles opened his therapy notebook to a clean page and wrote across the top in an uneven scrawl

_Green Flags_

  1. _Kisses when they served no purpose_
  2. _Paying attention_
  3. _Not using his biology against him (/wanting him to enjoy his biology)_
  4. _Pet name that no one else has to understand_
  5. _No orgasms for himself_



He could have gotten himself off before he went to sleep—with everything in his head, it would have been so easy to. Still, it was precisely everything in his head that kept him from it—flashes of blue eyes and big hands, the thought of a Dom so sure and easy that he could have taken Stiles apart, and put him together. He would have wanted Stiles to be a good boy, surely—surely Peter wasn’t allowed to touch himself whenever he felt horny. 

Sometime near dawn, Stiles fell asleep with his cock pressed into the mattress, hard and aching.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I've got a lot of projects going right now- currently, my primary focus is my Steter Discord exchange fic that'll be out mid-April. However, I'm also trying to fairly regularly post on my projects that have shorter chapters, because the world is a crazy place to be in right now, and if I can add some joy to that for even one person, I want to be doing it if I can. 
> 
> You guys are amazing; thank you for reading ^^

The next time Stiles saw Chris and Peter he stumbled on them with just as little design— he hadn’t expected they’d be back so soon. Josiah took him out so rarely, but it had barely been a week and there Chris was with Peter. It stirred a longing in Stiles’ chest he could hardly name, the abstract notion of having someone so proud of him they were eager to show him off, eager to meet his needs without making them feel like an obligation.

Growing up, he had always thought that Doms needed scenes just as much as subs did, but Josiah hadn’t made him feel that way. His therapist had given him information on differing hormone levels, on the possibility that he was in his own way deriving similar effects from the strict control of Stiles’ scenes as he might have from doing them more often, on the possibility that he hadn’t been faithful. There were so many options, so many roads that could have taken him to the dark place he’d been. He was working on coming to terms with the fact that he would likely never have anything more concrete than options, not without talking to the man himself. Uncertainty was far more welcome than that.

It was Chris’ form he saw first that drew him to the scene from across the room- he’d seen him only once before, but he’d paid such rapt attention that Stiles felt like he could have picked his profile out of a lineup. He stood tall, fully clothed as he had been the first time until he’d taken his shirt off for Peter’s benefit. This time, he wore a jacket, too, and the worn black leather looked soft, used. It didn’t look like a prop; he probably rode bikes in it, wore it when he and Peter went on dates. How lived in it looked just made Stiles want to bury his face in it even more. Underneath it, his shirt was nearly half unbuttoned, baring just enough chest to entice without looking at all ruffled. He was still put together, collected. It suited him, so well that Stiles could feel a tremor in his knees.

As distracting as Chris was, it was a minute before Stiles properly took in Peter, bound tight to a chair with soft rope, midnight blue and beautiful against his skin. The knots had been done with so much care. Standing over him, Chris’ fingers were tangled in the hair of a sub on their knees between Peter’s thighs, guiding their head down, the pressure visible in the flex of his arm as he held them there even after they tensed.

“— come on, Nathan; relax your throat. You can do it; just like we practiced. Peter’s pretty big for an omega, I know, but you’re gonna have something much bigger to stretch that jaw in a minute,” Chris murmured, low and soft for the sub on his knees, chased with the flex of his hand. Stiles was close enough that he could see the minute Nathan relaxed, the head of Peter’s cock just barely bulging out his throat.

Stiles’ skin went hot with remembering, even though the chill in his throat felt like ice. His hand had gone to his neck unbidden and he let it press there, but he didn’t back up. He’d had these men on his mind all week; he didn’t want to miss the chance to watch, not even if it made him feel like he was crawling in fire ants. What happened here wouldn’t be like the last time he’d tried this.

What happened the last time he’d tried this wouldn’t be allowed in a place like this.

“It’s different for every sub,” Chris said, back to his teacher Dom voice, his eyes flicking up just long enough to glance over his audience. “But in my experience when you’re teaching a sub to take a knot in their mouth the first time you do it you want their jaw and throat nice and loose, almost overworked. They might get a muscle cramp during, but you can deal with that afterward. The hardest part to conquer is the nerves; we help with that by making sure they’re so well used they’re far enough under that the nerves lift. We let Nathan have his Master first to take the edge off and start working him open—“

His Master—that had to be the man watching just to the left, closer than the audience but not touching. Still, there was a softness in his eyes that soothed the frayed edges of Stiles’ own nerves. He didn’t have the immediate presence Chris did—not for Stiles, at least—but he didn’t look disconnected from his sub. He looked fond, indulgent. Maybe he was learning from Chris, or maybe he could have done this on his own. Maybe the set up was, for one of them at least, part of the draw—part fantasy, part reality. Stiles hadn’t had the best background in learning how to temporarily combine them, how to pull them apart and put each piece back where it belonged when the scene was over. Maybe it wouldn’t have come naturally to him anyway, but Josiah hadn’t helped. In his mind, fantasy and reality blurred too easily, like mixing paint.

“Next, we’re letting him practice on Peter. I’ll finish the lesson up myself as soon as I’m sure he’s worked open enough—“ Chris paused, and Stiles could feel the shift in something in the air—maybe in Chris’ posture, maybe in the flick of his gaze up from Nathan to Peter. Whatever tipped him off, Stiles could feel the tension just before it broke, catching in his own throat like a weight. “—he should be ready after Peter comes down his throat.”

Peter’s head snapped up, the sharp hitch in his breath far closer to pain than pleasure. “Chris, please don’t—"

“This isn’t up for debate,” Chris said, firm and soft, like a reminder rather than a warning. “I told you you were going to help me train Nathan.”

Every sub was different, sure, but being told he was allowed to come had never made Stiles feel like crying. Peter looked seconds away from it, his breath heavy, chest heaving against the ropes. “I am; I have. I’m helping; I’ve been good, please—"

“You have been,” Chris said. With a firm press to the nape of his neck to encourage Nathan to stay in place, Chris let go so he could cup Peter’s cheek and kiss his forehead, nuzzling against him. It was intimate, tender. It didn’t stop Peter from trembling. “And you’re going to be such a good boy for me and come when I tell you to, and say thank you to Nathan.”

Peter’s head shake was pitiful, so quick and aborted, clearly unwilling to lose contact with his Dom’s hand. “Please don’t; please, I don’t want—"

“Is that up to you? Whose cock is that?” Chris was still so mild, but the force, there, was different. It made Stiles want to show his throat, even with Peter’s distress pricking at him like needles. 

“Yours. Sir.” Peter swallowed between like it hurt him to say it. Stiles could see the pressure on his collar increase, and knew without seeing what was Chris’ doing, his fingers likely curled around the leather. 

“That’s right. Do you get to decide to what happens to it?”

“No, Sir.” His whisper was punctuated by a whine, his thighs shaking. He had to be so close; Stiles could hardly imagine how he was holding on. The thought of holding back with a mouth on his cock sounded like a level of difficulty he hadn’t trained enough to begin to reach—then again, as his therapist had reminded him more than once, when he took a new Dom, his training would be starting over. What he’d learned with Josiah wasn’t healthy—probably not even the parts that hadn’t seemed so bad. 

Chris petted down Peter’s belly, rubbing soft and slow with the back of curled fingers as he leaned closer to speak directly against the shell of his ear. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to carry to the front of the crowd— to Peter, it had to sound encompassing. 

“Go on; come in his mouth.”

Peter’s body jerked against the ropes like a puppet, like it was pulled out of him—as well trained as he probably was, the analogy likely wasn’t wrong. What defense could a sub have against trained reflex? What stronger reminder could there be that Peter’s body wasn’t his?

Nathan moaned as he swallowed, long and low and eager, his back flexing. He didn’t pull off until Peter was trembling, his thanks for Nathan weak and halting. When Nathan licked his lips, there was barely a missed drop, only a small trickle down his chin. However he dealt with it was lost to Stiles— he couldn’t take his eyes from Peter, the rapid heaving of his chest as Chris moved the chair and him with it to the side. With a single look, he’d said enough to Nathan’s Dom and another who’d stood nearby to step up, positioning Nathan. Stiles drifted to the side of the crowd, less interested in the prospect of the main scene continuing without them than he was how Chris was going to deal with Peter. 

Peter turned toward hard and quick toward the hand Chris laid against his cheek, eyes squeezed closed as he struggled to center himself. There was no clear outward sign it wasn’t working—it wasn’t abnormal for a sub to struggle after a hard task. Stiles might not fully understand why, but it was clear that for whatever reason, this had been hard for Peter. Still, Chris was hesitating over him, cradling his cheek and stroking his hair in a stretching silence that didn’t break until the movement of Peter’s shoulders with each breath looked even. 

It was only then that he cupped Peter’s chin, careful to wait again until their eyes met. “You’ll watch me finish helping with Nathan, and then we’ll go home so I can take care of my baby.” 

“Yes, sir,” Peter said. It was clear; it wasn’t slurred. The moisture that Chris wiped from the corner of his eye could have been from strain. “I’ll be good.” The quiver in his jaw was barely perceptible, nearly hidden by Chris’ hand. “I’ll be better. I can take it; I’m sorry.” 

The anticipation in Stiles chest was so heavy he could feel his fingers tingle. God, how many times had heard Josiah’s response to that when he was training?

_Don’t be sorry. Just do it better next time._

_Don’t be sorry, Stiles. Don’t do it again._

_I don’t want you to be sorry; I want you to be better._

The furrow in Chris’ brow made him want to flinch, for Peter’s sake. If he was already struggling, a punishment right now would be hard to take—

But Chris was still petting him, his thumb slow and gentle in wiping the slow leak of moisture from the corner of his eyes. “I don’t want you to feel you have to take it. I want your number; how much does it hurt?”

For a moment, Peter seemed to focus only on evening his breath. Chris didn’t look away from him, not for a second. There was no impatience in him, no prompting, just the slow stroke of his thumb, the gentle scratch of his other hand through Peter’s hair. 

“9, I think? I don’t know; it’s been a long day. Sir, I’m—”

Chris’ palm covered his mouth, gentle, only enough pressure to settle him. The shiver that ran along Peter’s shoulders didn’t look like fear. 

“9’s high, baby. That’s higher than I want to go right now. If you want to work on pushing that, we can, but we’ve pushed enough for today. I’m calling it; yellow car. We’re going home.” When he took his hand away, the twitch in Peter’s jaw could have been a move to speak—had to have been, but Chris caught it so early, his chin held in his fingers. “No, none of that. You were so fucking good for me today; you’re unbelievable. We can talk about it tomorrow, but right now we’re going home, and I’ll give you everything you need. I promise.” 

The kiss he bent to give wasn’t perfunctory. It wasn’t dismissive, patronizing. It didn’t look like an indulgence for Peter’s sake—it was slow and deliberate, deep and open mouthed and thorough. Romantic. Like he had before, Stiles couldn’t help the flash quick thought that he shouldn’t be watching them anymore—that something public had turned suddenly private. Perhaps it had, somehow, been both all along. For the two of them, maybe there was no difference in the way Chris was with him here, and the way he was alone—or there was a difference, but only in content, not intimacy. 

Stiles could hardly wrap his head around any of it. In the middle of Chris explaining louder and for the crowd that Erica would be taking over his part in the demonstration, he wandered away to go home and let his confusion steep. 

*****

To the notebook, he added—

  1. _Calling a slow down for his sub—or for himself?—without getting mad._
  2. _Willing to push boundaries if they both want to._
  3. _Wanting to talk about what went wrong._
  4. _Romance_



They were accurate, and he thought they were good examples, but knowing didn’t make him feel less confused, or less conflicted. 

In therapy, he threw the notebook onto the table, already flipped open. 

“Look, I know, I _know_ that not getting mad about wanting to back out is basic, but—” The rest stuck in his throat, clicking helplessly when he swallowed, unable to get it out. 

Fortunately, Dr. Martin was patient, but not a sadist. At least, not with her patients. She finished for him, kind and matter of fact, and still digging under his skin like a thorn. 

“But it’s not your experience.”

“No. No, it isn’t.” 

He cried in her office, and left with a pamphlet about a support group she ran that he might consider as additional therapy, and new homework—choose a new safeword, keep focusing on green flags.

Talk to Chris, and ask him how he’d known to stop. 

The last request had shaken him, but Dr. Martin was unruffled, and as she’d pointed out, Chris was a teacher. Surely he wasn’t unaccustomed to being approached—surely he’d be more than willing to offer a little insight to a sub in need of knowledge and direction. 

At home, he made red beans and rice for dinner, with turkey kielbasa. His dad didn’t complain about the turkey, or his relative silence, or Stiles sitting close enough to him on the couch he might as well have been magnetized. 

Instead, he wrapped as arm around him and pulled him closer, kissed his forehead and turned on the Mets. With the noise of the announcers and the crowd and the crack of the bat, the noise in his head didn’t seem so loud. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got long, because I didn't want to end it before Stiles and Chris talked- and then that got long XD 
> 
> Posting this now to help give me a boost of sanity for the incoming awful work week. I hope you guys enjoy it <3

Stiles wasn’t avoiding his homework, exactly. He just couldn’t seem to find the right time. 

The third time he saw Chris and Peter at the club, Chris wasn’t teaching. The scene was still in full public view, but the soft purple of the flickering fire in the jar on the wall next to the equipment they were using marked the scene as closed, open for observation only. 

Peter was back on a breeding bench, but this time, Chris was breeding him. For the first time since he’d seen them, Chris was naked, too, though his bare chest hovered just above Peter’s back—it had to be such an exquisitely gentle torture, to have him but not the pressure of his body, just the stretch of his cock and the scratch of his stubble against Peter’s shoulders when he learned close enough, the pull of his hands on Peter’s hips. Stiles mouth was already dry, but the thought of the strength it would take to hold himself just out of reach when Peter’s back tried to arch and touch him was nearly enough to make his brain short circuit. He couldn’t imagine being fucked by that carefully controlled power—he couldn’t even imagine having the chance to trace his abs with his mouth, and feel the muscle twitch under his skin. 

He couldn’t, not properly, but it made him wet trying. 

The trill when Peter came was beautiful. The whimpers that followed when Chris started to pull back as his knot formed were, in their own way, almost as pretty—they sounded pained, desperate, but it only clenched at Stiles chest for a moment before he breathed deep, and let it go. 

Peter wasn’t hurt—or if he was, it wouldn’t last. Chris wouldn’t let it. 

He bit down on Peter’s shoulder blade when he came, hard and sharp, the bulge of his knot pressing against Peter’s slit from the outside. Stiles could see a glimpse of it—every bit as large as he’d thought, gorgeously flushed. Without pressure to hold it, it started to deflate far too quickly for him to look as much as he wanted when Chris pulled out, breathing heavy. 

Come dribbled free, and Chris slapped Peter’s thigh, a crack that carried, and made Stiles jump. 

“Hold that, Lobo,” Chris said. “Show me you’re grateful.”

Peter nodded. His face was red from the angle, and the effort, and the orgasm. His eyes closed; Stiles could see his thighs quiver. “Yes sir. It’s hard there—”

“I know it’s hard there; if it was easy I wouldn’t ask you to do it, I’d just expect it.” Chris’ commentary was mild, his movements deliberately slow as he pulled open a toy box to rummage through it with his back to the room. Without an active lesson, his crowd was smaller—Stiles was close, and still not close enough to see clearly what he was looking over, deciding between. 

Despite his best efforts, come dripped from between Peter’s legs. 

The sound Chris made when he turned around was somewhere between amused and comforting. “Look at you. It’s hard to keep all that in without a knot, isn’t it, baby?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Ask for what you need.” 

The shiver travelled all the way down Peter’s spine. “I need a knot, please sir.”

“Are you sure that’s what you _need_ , or is it just want you want?”

“I need—I need help. I can’t hold it.”

“I know you can’t—but you’re a good boy for trying.” Chris bent to kiss his back, between his shoulders. He lingered, nuzzling to distract him as his hand slipped between Peter’s legs. His fingers curled into Peter’s slit, spreading it, shushing him when he whined at the loss of a little more. “Shh, it’s alright; I can feel you trying. I’ll help you.” 

He pulled back only long enough to take the plug he’d chosen from the box—not a knot, like Peter wanted, but a very short dildo, with a flared base. His body would pull it in, and try to clench around it like a knot, but it wouldn’t fit the space—the head of its short shaft would nudge maddeningly where Chris’ knot should have exerted pressure, but the design of the base and the ring of muscle just inside his slit would keep it in. It was ingenious; it was evil. 

Stiles’ thighs pressed together in involuntary sympathy. 

Chris rubbed the swell of his ass with one hand, and eased it in with the other. It slipped readily, and still he was careful, his thumb rubbing at the swollen lips of Peter’s slit once it came to rest against them. 

Peter’s wail once he realized what was happening was loud and carrying—enough to turn heads. It was then that Chris pressed close, chest against his back, mouth against his ear to speak to him in words Stiles couldn’t hear. He didn’t need to. It was enough to see Peter’s body relax even as his cock hardened again, his hips humping helplessly, Chris’ hand rubbing slow and soothing down his bicep, back up and across his ribs. Down, again, all the way to for a moment squeeze his hand. 

Whether it was affection or checking in, or both, it was touching, as gentle as the nip Stiles saw him give to Peter’s jaw before he raised up again. 

“Tell me how it feels,” Chris said. His eyes were on Peter’s face, his fingers tracing the curve of his spine. 

“It feels—” Peter’s breath hitched, the involuntary motion of his hips distracting. “—like being teased. Like—like I’m about to be fucked, I keep clenching but I can’t—I can’t reach—”

“That’s good; that’s good, baby. It should just feel like a little nudge—nothing to overstimulate you, just a little push. You’re going to milk on that for me and work those muscles until I think you’ve had enough, then I’m going to fill you up a little more and give you a knot plug to help you hold it on the way home.” 

He said it so soft, it could have been gentle. It _was_ gentle, if only in the tone, and the slow petting of his fingers across Peter’s skin. 

Peter whined, high and sharp, a little pleading—like if he’d been shifted, he’d have licked Chris’ hands. Chris smiled, indulgent and warm. 

“Shh, sweetheart, just let it happen. I want you under nice and deep; you’ll feel so good. I’ve got you; just let it happen.” 

When he started to move, the connection never wavered—even as he dressed, he touched Peter casually, a press of his palm to his hip, a kiss against his ribs. Even when he gathered himself to sit and wait, it was on a cushion that placed him at Peter’s height—easy to watch his face, and easy to kiss him. Though Peter tried at first to be greedy, Chris slowed him to a pace of long and slow, punctuated by Chris’ low growls and Peter’s trills. 

It didn’t seem possible, but the more it stretched, the more at ease Peter seemed to be—deep subspace dropped over him like a cascade, layering him down until even at Stiles distance his eyes looked glazed and bright. His whines weren’t sharp anymore, but soft, almost sweet. 

It was masterfully done—and arguably, Stiles could have waited it out. He could have watched until Peter started to come apart, watched Chris gather him up again and get him ready to leave. He could have asked, then—but it was easy to tell himself that there might not be time. 

Instead, he meandered through the hallways, checked out a private room, and rode a knotted dildo on his knees on the bed. 

Arguably, it scratched an itch in his body that needed reaching, but even before his thighs had stopped shaking, it felt like a disappointment. 

*****

  1. _Clever with his tasks/knows what he’s doing and what it’ll do to his sub_
  2. _Gentle—though he can turn it off when he needs to_
  3. _Checks in with his sub to make sure he’s still okay_
  4. _Patient_



At therapy, Stiles explained why he hadn’t interrupted, the third time. He had no excuse for the fourth, or the fifth. 

They talked about gentleness and power, control and submission, their nuances and layers. It was fascinating even when it hurt his head, even when it made his stomach flip—

Even when Dr. Martin fixed him with very steady eyes and reminded him that the longer he put off talking to Chris, the harder it would be. 

“If you’re afraid of intruding afterward, get there early. You’ve seen them enough, now, to have an idea of the hours they keep.”

Yes. He did. 

*****

The next Thursday, Stiles arrived at the club early. His dad was working, and that helped—he could have explained, about his homework and Chris, but it was easier for the time being not to. He’d mentioned that going was helping his therapy; that was enough for now. 

Rather than eat dinner with his nerves tangling his stomach, he left as soon as his dad had, and arrived early enough that Chris and Peter hadn’t moved into the play spaces yet. 

The first test of Stiles nerves was asking about Chris at the front desk, but that hadn’t been as embarrassing as he’d feared it might be—Chris _was_ an official instructor, if only part time. He had many friends in the club, and beyond them, members who wanted to learn, or wanted their subs to. As a member himself, they were willing to point Stiles in the right direction—an upstairs lounge, with wide windows, the dying light of sunset spilling in and painting orange and red across the walls. There was an enormous hearth, and a fire, cushions scattering the floor around it. A long, dark wooden table stretched nearly the length of the room, but even it looked homey—there was space to kneel under it, and ample space between chairs for kneeling alongside. 

It was both grand and comforting, an odd contrast that Stiles hadn’t anticipated, but probably should have. He’d spent too little time in places like this one, designed for comfort and stability, with an atmosphere that fostered community. 

In the lounge, Chris was more relaxed than Stiles had yet seen him. The casual power he exuded was part of him, still palpable, but out of a scene the intensity wasn’t dialed quite so high. His easy laughter was warm, his head tipping back against the high-backed chair he sat in. He was far from the windows but close to the fire, chair tilted out from the table so Peter could rest comfortably on his knees between his thighs. The pillow under Peter’s knees was thicker than the one on the chair Chris sat in, and it looked soft. The midnight blue of it matched the collar at Peter’s throat, and the rope that Stiles remembered—either Peter had preferences, or Chris had an aesthetic. Given that his own wardrobe beyond the leather jacket and boots Stiles had seen more than once seemed casual and far less particular, he would have bet on Peter. 

On the table, there was a platter with cheese and fruit, and roasted meat that smelled mouth watering. It was tender, easily pulled apart by Chris’ fingers to feed to Peter by hand. 

He could have watched them so easily. 

With a deep breath, Stiles forced himself to move, turning over in his head everything he’d considered and reconsidered last night in bed, again on the drive on the way over. He didn’t _have_ to kneel, and he wouldn’t. It was no disrespect—he had a crush; there was no denying it. How could he not? If he knelt for Chris, his mind would wander, and that wasn’t the point of this. He’d come to talk, not drift.

He’d gone over and over it in his head, and still, pulling out the chair on the other side of Peter rather than sinking to the ground left a twitchy feeling in his legs. To alleviate it, or distract from it, he tapped his thumb against the table. Looking up, he met Chris’ eyes, and just as quickly dropped his own back to the table. Up close, they were searingly intense, a brighter blue than he’d ever seen—or he had, and it was the focus behind them that made him different. 

Jesus, he had to talk—even if he might open mouth and have trouble shutting it. 

“Hi, um, sorry to just—intrude, I just—you know, I’m pretty new here, and I had thought—well, I talked to Carolina at the front desk and she had said you wouldn’t mind—”

“You’re not intruding, and I don’t mind,” Chris said. “Peter and I were just having a bite.” His voice was gentle, and low, but Stiles didn’t feel patronized. It was soothing. “I’ve seen you around a few times, but only in observation.” 

Stiles tried very hard not to be mortified—it didn’t sound accusatory, only honest. 

“Yeah, I—I’ve been coming here a couple months.” His thumb tapped an uneven rhythm against the polished surface of the table. “Just me, I don’t have—I feel like this is only gonna get weirder if I’m not honest so why don’t I just put the too much information out there and you can tell me you don’t want to talk or—”

“I highly doubt that’s going to be my answer—but can I ask you something first? Two things.” 

The strange, fluttering skip of his heart almost hurt. Stiles nodded, swallowing against the pressure in his chest. “Yeah, yeah of course.”

“I’d like for you to look at me when you talk. You don’t have to keep eye contact, but I want to see your face.”

The flush of heat through his body was instantaneous—it shouldn’t have been half as fucking sexy as it was, especially not with his nerves so on edge he felt like they might at any moment fly out of his body like nervous sparrows. The tension of his mind and body, split in a dozen fluttering directions. 

Chris had cut through all of that. 

He felt hot, as involuntary a response as the undoubted change in his scent—he might have been too distracted to realize, if not for the way Peter had craned his neck to look back at him, his back straightening. 

Before he could even complete the motion, Chris’ hand was on his cheek. “None of that. Wait.”

Stiles swallowed, and looked up. The intensity of Chris’ eyes hadn’t lessened, but this time, he held them, if only for a few seconds. Beyond the first stab of nerves, it was a relief to realize he _could_. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“That’s good; thank you.”

The heat settled between his legs. Stiles crossed one over the other. “Sorry, I guess I’m just nervous, I—but you had a second thing?”

“I did.” In asking, he waited until Stiles had looked up again. “This is just a question not a request, but if you’d feel more comfortable kneeling, that’s fine. We can still have a conversation.”

It was completely tempting—he hadn’t expected to be asked. Still, Stiles shook his head. “I appreciate it, but I’m okay like this, it’s just nerves. See…for full disclosure, I’m here because my therapist recommended this place.” Stiles waited for it to sink in; for Chris’ face to change. When it didn’t, he couldn’t help but wonder how pathetic he might come across that that might already have been suspected. 

Unwilling to let his mind dwell there, he tamped the thought down.

“I had some…really bad experiences, honestly, and I’m going to have to work on that, and the first part of that I guess is getting a better understanding of how all this _should_ work when it works right, so she thought it’d be good for me to come here and…see it working.”

“That’s not uncommon. Trauma leaves a deep imprint; those expectations can’t be reset without work. Sometimes the best way to do that is to start from scratch.” 

“Yeah. I’m not sure when I’ll be ready to…start, or maybe I already am and I just haven’t, but as part of the whole…resetting expectations thing, I’ve been watching you and Peter—” As soon as it was out, Stiles winced. “That sounds creepy; I just mean, I saw you doing a demonstration that first night—”

“When we come here, we’re here to be watched. It’s not creepy.” Chris leaned forward, closing some of the distance between them. The pause he took to kiss Peter’s forehead and offer him a cube of mango from the tips of his fingers seemed wholly natural, as light and quick as second nature. 

On some level, Stiles had already known that. Still, it felt nice to hear him confirm it, the tension lessoned in his neck when he nodded. “Yeah. So—since you do teach here, I thought you might not mind—is it okay if I ask you a couple questions, about one of those scenes I saw?”

“It’s absolutely okay—but can I ask one first? It’s an easy one.”

Stiles looked up, his concession in his eyes. Somehow, Chris looked pleased. 

“What’s your name?”

“Shit, sorry—Stiles, I should have said that when I sat down.”

“Stiles.” The curl of Chris’ voice around his name was beautiful. “Thank you. What did you want to talk about?” 

Stiles eyes flicked over the back of Peter’s neck, held stiff and straight. Now that he was near it, the collar he wore as even more exquisitely detailed than Stiles had realized. The leather was soft, and clearly meticulously cared for. Peter’s name was carved onto the silver of the buckle, in-between a fleur-de-lis, and a Celtic symbol he didn’t recognize. 

The memory of Chris pulling on it while Peter struggled not to snap surged fresh in his mind. 

“It was a few weeks ago—you were doing a demonstration about blow jobs and knotting—” his hand made it halfway to his throat before he caught himself, and it fell back onto the table. “Peter was having a hard time, and you stopped early to go home.” 

Halfway through explaining, Chris had made a noise of understanding.

“I was just wondering—not just one thing, really, but the main thing I was wondering is how you knew?” Preemptively, Stiles felt his insides wince. “I know that might sound like a stupid question, but something tipped you off to not finish even though he hadn’t said his safeword and I just…wonder what that was.” 

“That’s a great question; it’s not stupid at all—from the outside, I know that had to look pretty rough, especially since you don’t know either of us.” There was a hint of humor there, a match to the slight smile that curved his mouth when he looked down, and fed Peter a cube of cheese. Flat, and from his palm. For the flick of Peter’s tongue across his skin afterward, Chris scratched gently through his hair. “The first thing to understand is a little bit about what types of scenes Peter likes best—he loves being objectified; he loves being used. When we do a scene, he wants me to have complete control and do as I want with him—and to let other people have their way with him, too, as long as it’s under my direction. It’s not just strictly physical, either—if he was dressed, I would have introduced him to you already, but he has very specific rules. When he’s naked, even if we’re not in the middle of a strict scene, he’s mine to do with as I want and that’s where his focus needs to be—he doesn’t need to think about anything but keeping his body ready, and paying attention to what I ask of him. Right now, that’s to enjoy his dinner, and relax.”

Looking down, Stiles could see that even at rest, his body _was_ ready. His cock was half hard with no cock ring to help him. Undoubtedly, between his legs he was wet. 

“For subs who want a high degree of engagement with their dynamic, I’ve found it’s usually beneficial to keep them fairly sexually fixated—that works well for us, so Peter’s used to a lot of activity. I use a lot of forced orgasms and overstimulation, and he enjoys that. When you combine that with his strong preference for objectification, that can create some scenarios where what we’re doing is something he doesn’t want to do—but on a deeper level, that push out of his comfort zone is exactly what he wants. Does that make sense?”

“Intellectually.” He hadn’t meant to make Chris laugh, but it felt nice all the same. “I have a hard time relating personally because that’s layers of truth and fiction I’m not sure I could handle—”

“And that’s completely fine; not everyone could. It’s vital to understand that you don’t have to like everything—it’s not even possible. What works best for one sub wouldn’t work at all for another.” 

He said it so easy, so readily. There was such freedom of open possibility to it that it still sounded strange. 

“What happened that night was a combination of a few things,” Chris said. “Peter enjoys that push—and one thing we’re experimenting with is just how much push he enjoys. He’s not much into physical pain, but we have found he enjoys a certain level of emotional pain—not in every scene, not even in most of them, but every now and then it’s something that adds to the experience, because no matter how he feels when it’s happening, he knows I’m going to resolve it. That’s enough of a safety line for him to let go, let himself find raw appreciation of something that hurts, knowing it won’t last. We’re still trying to find out how far that goes—and we’re trying to find my comfort level with it, too. Even if he’s alright with it, there’s only so much pain I’m comfortable with causing. I enjoying pushing him, and I enjoy bringing him down—I don’t enjoy seeing him cry like that. We have to find that medium for both of us.” 

Even hoping that Chris would speak to him, Stiles hadn’t expected quite so much honesty. It was a wealth of information—too much to absorb at once, and still, he had questions. His head was full of them. 

“Is that why you stopped? For you, not for him?”

Chris’ hand tilted, see-sawing. “Yes, and no. Crying over physical exhaustion is one thing, but it wasn’t that—I know the difference. That’s my job as his Dom, and that’s why I asked him how much it hurt—that wasn’t physical, that was about how he was feeling. He ranked it high, and that didn’t surprise me, because he doesn’t cry—I just wanted to confirm it with him before I stopped it for both of us. Where I slipped up—”

Peter’s noise was immediate, almost a full _you_ before he cut himself off. Stiles could see his jaw jumping as he clenched it, stronger when Chris looked down. 

“Something to add?” There was at least as much amusement as iron. The familiarity squeezed hard against Stiles’ ribs. 

“A disagreement, sir,” Peter said. There was a clarity to his voice Stiles had never heard, but that made sense—he’d never seen him so lightly into headspace. “You didn’t make a mistake. Neither one of us expected me to take it that hard.”

“Anticipating how hard you’ll take something is my responsibility. That’s still a failure.”

“I don’t agree. Sir.” 

“Duly noted—but I’m not punishing myself over it, and you know that. We’ve talked about this, more than once. I’m just talking to Stiles about it—and I don’t think he’s going to punish me for it either.” 

It was wry, and easy, and still Stiles felt a flush creep up his neck, settling stronger when Peter’s growl rose and died, flicker fast. 

Chris’ fingers curled around his collar, his pressure firm in contrast to the light brush of a kiss he leaned over to leave against Peter’s cheek. “I appreciate your loyalty, but I made a mistake. It’s okay to own up to it. You don’t have to like it, but hush, and let me talk about it.” 

After Peter took a slice of kiwi in silence, Chris turned back to Stiles. 

“My mistake was pushing too hard, or for too long—we’d been carrying out an extended scene; he’d been under for hours. He loves that, and he loves forced orgasms, but the further under he is, the more he likes those orgasms to come from me, especially when he’s winding down. Beyond that, being knotted is one of his favorite rewards. As tired as he was and in the headspace he was in, having to take an orgasm that didn’t directly come from me and _then_ watch me knot someone else—it felt like a punishment, even though it wasn’t, and that didn’t make sense to him because he’d been good. He couldn’t have articulated that at the time, and I didn’t see all the pieces of it then—I just knew something wasn’t right, because I knew he wasn’t acting how he usually does. His distress looked too real—I didn’t have to understand it. We figured it out by talking it through a few times over the next few days—after a rough scene like that, sometimes it doesn’t take one discussion. Sometimes you have to keep coming back to it until you’ve gotten to the root of the problem—and if you want to try anything like what you were doing when you stopped again, you need to get to the root of the problem.”

The entire concept of one long talk after a scene was a luxury he’d started to relegate to romance novels—the thought of _more_ than one was even harder to imagine. Sure, he’d seen it outlined in his tenth grade health textbook; he could still name the steps.

_Kink preferences lists/comparison_

_Scene planning and negotiation_

_Preparation for the scene_

_Scene activity_

_Aftercare_

_Debriefing_

That memorization had never served him in real life, however. If he and Josiah had a debriefing, it was over breakfast, and over quick, and dominated by Josiah telling him what he’d liked that Stiles had done, and what he could do better. 

Most of it had been lists of what he could do better.

“Does that answer your question?” Chris asked. His softer tone gave away just how much of Stiles’ conflict had to be written on his face—far more than he’d meant to show. 

Stiles looked up to face him, even so. “Yeah, it does. Thank you. I mean, it gives me about a hundred more questions and makes me think I need about ten more years of therapy because of one stupid decision that lasted ten months, but yeah, it makes sense.”

“Well, we aren’t in a hurry,” Chris said. His hand curled loosely, knuckles dragging along the line of Peter’s jaw until he turned his head, tucking his face in against Chris’ thigh. A trained reflex. 

Stiles mouth watered, and he swallowed against it. 

“What’s the next question?” 


End file.
